


Costume Capers

by Janice_Lester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Comic-Con, Community: kink_bingo, Costumes, Crack, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-09
Updated: 2012-10-09
Packaged: 2017-11-26 17:42:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/652790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janice_Lester/pseuds/Janice_Lester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean go to Comic-Con to track down a monster.  Well, that's Dean's excuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Costume Capers

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a Single Line Extra for my first 2012 [](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/profile)[kink_bingo](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/) card, to hit the kinks "shaving/depilation", "whipping/flogging", "uniforms/military kink", "dress up", and "held down". Some RPF content. Somewhat cracky. Beta'd by [](http://ellethill.livejournal.com/profile)[**ellethill**](http://ellethill.livejournal.com/) and [](http://nix-this.livejournal.com/profile)[nix_this](http://nix-this.livejournal.com/). **Continuity/Spoilers:** vague setting is vague. There's a reference to Dean's favourite TV show from season 5 that's a little spoilery, but otherwise season one canon knowledge should suffice.

“Dude, this is _such_ a bad idea.”

Sam gave him a look. “Dude, you’re not fooling me. You love this stuff.”

“You’re the one who shaved his legs for this.”

Probably best not to tell him that Sam had actually rather enjoyed the leg-shaving part. Or to wonder aloud whether his snap decision to go the whole hog and shave his ‘pits too had gone unnoticed.

Dean looked around, apparently trying to show his utter contempt for all the people in costumes—more people than you’d think could even safely _fit_ in here—the bright displays of merchandise, the screens rolling footage of niche movies and cult TV series. The din of a thousand voices talking all at once, people yelling for their friends’ attention, the theme tune from _Transformers_ (the real one, the one so familiar from about a million syndicated reruns) blaring on endless repeat from some dealer’s stereo system, and the sound effects from teenagers having lightsabre battles.

The light in his eyes and the twitch of a smile betrayed him.

“Admit it, Dean. These are your people. You’ve come home.”

Sam got a shove for that one, almost enough to send him stumbling into a nearby display of interactive tribbles. “Hey, watch the costume! You think it’s easy to find the Wonder Woman corset in my size?”

Dean gave him an assessing glance. “Not real sure that _is_ your size, Skeletor. Hate to tell you, but you really don’t have the boobies for it.” And with that, he gave a very convincing Tom Cruise smile, donned his aviator sunglasses, and stepped deeper into the mysterious land that was the Comic-Con Dealer’s Room. He pulled off the fighter pilot look rather well, Sam thought. Even though he’d chosen the skin tight flight suit less because it suited him and more because “dude, girls love a man in uniform who knows what to do with a cockpit”.

Sam’s progress through the crowd was rather slower. The boots, although flat-heeled—because fighting in heels was stupid and unrealistic and he refused to further that particular stereotype—were cheap wobbly vinyl that _pinched_ across the toes. Also, he was getting considerably more attention as Wonder Woman than Dean was getting as what’s-his-name out of _Top Gun_ , which made people tardier getting out of his way. Still, he kept his eyes open and did his best to keep up while not treading on too many innocent toes. Somewhere, in this sprawling hive of people in costume, was a genuine monster they needed to deal with.

Well, probably.

Sam maintained that it simply wasn’t possible to tell from the man’s behaviour whether or not William Shatner was possessed by a demon. But Dean insisted his lead was good and this wasn’t just an excuse to come here but an actual job. Whatever. Sam sincerely hoped it wasn’t a Tulpa, because getting a gazillion Trekkies to stop believing in William Shatner—even if it was a _fake_ William Shatner, a creature born of their collective notion of the actor’s personality—did not sound overly do-able.

***

In the hallway outside one of the conference rooms, Sam was charged by a guy dressed as the Incredible Hulk, roaring impressively. Instinct had him ducking just in time to grab the guy, roll him, and pin him to the ground.

A small cheer rang out around them.

The Hulk coughed. He really was rather a little guy. Sam began to feel that he might have over-reacted just a tad. Dude probably just wanted to play-fight.

“Don't mess with an Amazon, okay? It’s not nice.” He held the guy down until he received a grudging nod. Poor Hulky looked about ready to cry. Sam wasn’t sure which of them was the more embarrassed as he dusted himself off and helped the guy up.

“Man,” someone said, cellphone raised, “this is so going up on my YouTube channel.”

“Total highlight,” someone else agreed. “Marvel pwns DC right there.”

“DC had better get off their ass and green light some movies, or people will forget how awesome—”

“…those rumours about Disney buying…”

“Best convention _ever_.”

“Hey, Wonderful!” Dean hollered. “Move your ass, we’re gonna be late.”

Sam rolled his eyes, checked his bracelets and Lasso were still in place, and followed obediently in his brother’s wake.

***

It wasn’t a Tulpa, Sam thought with a mixture of relief and dismay. Not unless most of the audience genuinely believed that the real William Shatner had eyes that turned black when he told evil jokes. Beside him, Dean clutched his stolen VIP pass, his free hand searching the pockets of his flight suit for holy water. Sam patted his bustier, was reassured by the rustle of not-Kleenex that his secret weapon was still there, and his exorcism ritual on paper in case he forgot the words in the heat of battle.

Battle.

With a demon. Inside William Shatner.

Ugh, if they screwed this up and killed Shatner—or if the demon had already taken care of that—this whole situation was likely to end pretty messy. And pretty public.

_One thing at a time, Sam. One thing at a time._

“So, you got any bright ideas for getting close?” he hissed at Dean.

“Autograph line?”

“You’re not serious.”

“What, you just want to follow him around in the hopes he uses a public restroom or something?”

Sam sighed. How did he always get roped into these things?

***

So that’s how Wonder Woman and Tom Cruise came to be next in line at The Shat’s area for photo ops (autographs were later on the schedule, apparently). They would have made it to the front sooner, only Dean had been distracted by a pair of cowboy boots going by and they’d lost their place in the line. Dean seemed to think Sam should chill on account that it was _the real Doctor Sexy, dude, and I totally got his autograph_. Dean’s non-stop grinning over the illegible scrawl on his forearm was hilarious. He’d proudly rolled up the sleeve of his flight suit to display it to all and sundry. Sam only hoped he’d wash it off—or even just sweat it off—before it occurred to Dean to get the thing tattooed there or something. But, anyway, here they were, listening to a middle-aged woman giggle like a schoolgirl at something demon-Shatner had just said, which had managed to sound flirty despite being in Klingon, and Sam was far, far too aware of all the innocent people around them to enjoy any of this.

“Mister Shatner, sir!” Dean cried happily, the second the woman—now crying—had turned to go. “I’m a huge fan. May I shake your hand?”

It was enough of a distraction for Sam. Dean even got the man to turn away slightly. The Devil’s trap was the most, um, robust Sam had been able to fabricate which would also fit inside a fancy dress costume, and it wasn’t pretty but hopefully it would get the job done. It was a Twister mat, actually. Devil’s trap in magic marker on the underside.

“My brother has a thing for that game,” Dean informed The Shat as they stepped towards Sam by the neutral photographic backgrounds. “Humour him, he’s a sweet kid, just a little slow.”

Sam did his best to look bashful and not roll his eyes.

William Shatner smiled hugely and threw an arm over each of their shoulders. He smiled his TV smile, and the camera clicked. As one, Sam and Dean ducked out of reach, beyond the confines of the mat, Sam already chanting.

“What the hell do you think you’re—” Shatner took a step, then raised his foot and… stopped. Looked down, suspiciously, at the Twister mat, then back up at Sam. “No,” he said. “Oh, no you don’t, boy. SECURITY!”

People jumped. An awkward, shifting silence fell.

Sam really, really hoped the Tasers he’d seen on a few security drones were the only real weaponry anyone was carrying in this outfit.

“It’s a magic trick!” Dean told the crowd hopefully. “We’re, um, magicians. Watch closely now for the big special effects!” He lowered his voice. “Chant faster, Sam.”

Sam chanted faster.

Shatner screamed and shook and writhed. Black smoke billowed forth.

***

To his very great credit, Mister Shatner, once de-possessed (dispossessed?), prevented them from being dismembered by an angry mob of Romulans, red-shirts, and what looked suspiciously like a pair of identical twins dressed as TJ Hooker, and dragged them into a greenroom where he ignored Doctor Sexy himself and five other guests to pour the three of them drinks with shaking hands.

“I don’t know who you kids are,” he said, “and I don’t want to. Don’t think I want to know what just happened to me, either. But I’m pretty sure you just saved my life, and I’m grateful. I like my life.”

Dean smiled. Sam was too busy feeling relieved that the demon, whoever it was, had apparently done Shatner no real injuries during his time riding around in Shatner’s meat.

“Now,” Shatner said, after his empty glass was set aside, “how about I fix you boys up with some signed 8x10s and then forget any of this ever happened?”

“That would be awesome,” Dean replied instantly. “Have you got one where you’re in uniform?”

***

“So William Shatner _was_ actually possessed,” Sam observed, over a vegetable smoothie. “Who’d have thought it.”

Dean said something, but he was halfway through a mouthful of heart attack burger so the words were kinda hard to make out. Might have been “I told you so.”

“How did you find this job, anyway? You just wake up one morning and think to yourself _gee willickers, Batman, hasn’t some old washed-up actor who can’t sing been acting kinda weird lately?_ ”

Dean swallowed his mouthful, sipped noisily from his milkshake. Milkshake! He really was in a strange mood today. “The internet, believe it or not, young padawan, can be used for purposes other than porn.” He burped, banged his fist on his chest. “Did a search for ‘weird black smoke’ or something. Found someone’s cellphone video of William Shatner being attacked by weird black smoke. Yahtzee. Fans all seemed to think it was some kind of publicity stunt, but black smoke is black smoke. No chance of getting near his house to check for sulphur, of course, but it’s sci-fi convention season, so…” He shrugged. “You may bow down before my genius.”

“Maybe later,” Sam said.

Dean slapped him affectionately on the back. “Come on, drink up. I wanna see that babe from _Charmed_. And then there’s the slave-Leia contest, with the gold bikini, and you know hot nerd chicks need lovin’ too. And I hear there’s a replica Batmobile around here someplace…”

***

So, Dean wanted to stay to see some other stuff. What other stuff? Oh, that would be _everything,_ apparently. It would probably be quicker to list the things he _didn’t_ want to see. He eventually agreed to staying only another hour, two tops, and it took Sam whipping him with his Lasso of Truth to get him to concede that much.

Okay, so Sam liked that part maybe just a little too much.

He also liked the part where an incredibly beautiful woman, dressed (rather convincingly) as Seven of Nine, made straight for them, smiling invitingly.

“Hey, Baby,” Dean began, “what’s a nice Borg drone like you doing in a—”

“Hey, Sweetcheeks, you’re not my type.” She turned to Sam. “Diana, I presume?” She offered her hand, which he shook carefully, mindful of the hardware. “Annika. I must say, you handle a whip most efficiently.”

Okay, he was probably blushing. “Uh, thanks. I practice?”

She looked him up and down. He wondered if he’d feel less naked if he _hadn’t_ shaved off all that protective body hair.

“Care to practice buying me a drink?”

He looked at Dean, who was staring, open-mouthed. Which sure made the decision easier. “I’ll catch you later, man. Call me if you need me.”

Dean looked torn between being offended and cheering him on, and seemed to split the difference and land on jealous.

Oh, yes. Coming here was a _great_ idea.

 

***END***


End file.
